But the brush seemed fairly to leap at them, the rocks grew malignantly larger while they looked, the ditches deepened ominously.

Over these the frail thing of cloth and little strips of wood and wire and the delicate, dumb motor, skimmed like a weary-winged bird.

Bland flattened it out, coaxed it to keep the air.

Lower, lower--a high bush was flicked by a wheel in passing.

On a little farther, and yet a little.
She landed just at the edge of the goal.